


1001 Nights, According to Yusuf

by ToBebbanburg



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, SO, after ripping off agatha christie I'm coming for 1001 nights, as told by mr yusuf al-kaysani, who decides to insert himself and nicky in amongst the legends and myths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25903837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: Yusuf gets captured whilst on a mission, and in order to try and delay a very public execution he decides to draw things out by telling the Sultan some classic stories. And if he happens to end up putting himself and Nicky in there... well who can blame him.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 76
Kudos: 228





	1. The Fisherman and the Jinn

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so the stories in 1001 Nights seem to have such a wide range of influences from across the Muslim world, from North Africa all the way to India, so it just seems like the perfect fit for Joe, the well-travelled artist. Try telling me that Joe didn't pick up local stories and legends at every port and city he came to. Go on. Try me.

As the Sultan’s guards dragged Yusuf through the corridors of the palace, his main thought was a smug sense of satisfaction that he had lasted as long as he had.

He had been a successful spy during his old life as a merchant, but listening in to other merchants’ gossip was a far cry from hiding out in plain sight in the Sultan’s court, smuggling hastily scribbled notes out of the palace in increasingly convoluted fashions. His last report had been rolled up and hidden inside a mango, given to the young son of the stable master who had been told to deliver it to the pale man in the marketplace with the eyes the colour of sea foam. It only occurred to him later that the boy had probably never seen the sea, but no matter. There were no other men like his Nicolò in the city.

He didn’t bother fighting the guards: they were many and he was but one man. A man with a good couple of centuries of fighting experience, but one man nonetheless. No, Yusuf decided that the best course of action was to confront the Sultan face to face. Perhaps he could convince him to kill him by throwing him over the side of the palace walls, save him the bother of having to try and sneak out of the palace later as a formerly dead man. Perhaps he could convince him not to do any killing at all. He could but dream.

The Sultan was lounging on a plush couch when Yusuf was finally brought before him. It was hard to tell where the man ended and the couch began: both were plump and covered in a frankly painful shade of fuchsia.

“The spy, your excellency.” One of the guards not currently occupied in restraining Yusuf introduced him. “Though for _who_ exactly, he will not say.”

“And he doesn’t need to. I do not care who he works for, I only care that he is stopped.” The Sultan yawned. Yusuf didn’t blame him: he himself would much prefer to be in bed at that moment.

“You do not wish to question him?” the guard who had spoken earlier tried his hardest not to sound indignant. From the threats and insults he had spat at Yusuf on their journey over, he had been looking forward to a spot of unpleasant interrogation.

“I won’t talk.” Yusuf said cheerfully. “Might as well just kill me.”

“See.” The Sultan raised an eyebrow at the guard. “Just kill him. Slit his throat in the market and leave his body there for all to see. I wager it’ll be a while before the next spy comes along.”

The lack of torture was good. The method of death was bad. Yusuf couldn’t allow himself to be killed somewhere so public, somewhere where everyone would see him come back to life. Somewhere where the guards would see and haul him back inside the palace to be prodded and poked by the Sultan.

“Wait!” he called as the guards on either side of him made to turn him around and drag him back out of the room. “Wait, please, might I at least be permitted to choose my own manner of death?”

The Sultan held up a hand, stopping the guards. He said nothing, but gestured for Yusuf to keep talking.

“Let me choose how I shall die. Please. Like the story of the jinn and the fisherman.” Yusuf tried, thinking of the story the stable master’s boy had told him only the day before. Surely a man with a taste for theatrics such as the Sultan would be swayed by the thought of recreating a legend?

As the Sultan’s brow crinkled into a frown, Yusuf’s heart sank. A slit throat in the market it was then. He could only hope the others would intervene and take his body away before he came back to life.

“I do not know this story.” The Sultan’s voice brought Yusuf back to the moment.

“It’s good.” Yusuf told him, seeing an opportunity. “I can tell it to you if you like, it’s not very long. We can even turn it into a wager: If you enjoy my story, you grant me the honour of choosing my own method of execution. If you do not, then I readily submit myself to having my throat slit.”

“Your excellency, do not listen to him, he is a snake and a-” the guard who had wanted to torture Yusuf argued, but was silenced by another gesture from the Sultan.

“A wager? I have never had a spy try to wager with me before.” The Sultan sounded amused. “Very well. Tell me this story.”

“Am I to entertain you like this? Restrained?” Yusuf shrugged his shoulders against his guards for emphasis. He was smacked around the head for his troubles.

The Sultan considered him for a moment, then nodded, his mind made up.

“Bind his hands, tie him to a post, and leave us.” He barked at the guards, who followed his orders after only an admirable few seconds of exchanging perplexed looks with each other.

Soon enough, Yusuf was sat quite comfortably on the floor on a cushion almost as large as the Sultan was, the only discomfort being his hands that were tightly bound in a rope, that in turn was tied around a stone column.

“Now. The story.” The Sultan demanded, settling himself into a reclining position on the couch.

“Well.” Yusuf began. “It starts with a fisherman…”

_Many years ago, in a far-off land, a fisherman lived on the sea shore. Every day he left his hut and waded out into the ocean, and cast his net four times. Whatever he caught with those four throws he would sell at the market later that day._

_One day, the fisherman set out as usual, and cast his net into the sea. Something caught in it, something huge and heavy that he had to pull with all his might just to take it out of the water. When he did, he saw that his net had caught around a dead donkey, decayed and disgusting._

_He cast his net a second time, and caught something smaller, something lighter. On inspection it turned out to be nothing but a jar of dirt, worthless to anyone. He tried again, a third time, and this time brought up nothing but shards of glass and pottery._

_Before his fourth and final throw, he closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to God._

“And which god would that be?” the Sultan interrupted.

“Allah, of course.” Yusuf replied.

“Good. I can permit a spy to tell me a story for a wager, but not a Catholic spy.” The Sultan closed his eyes and waved his hand in Yusuf’s general direction. “Continue.”

_Before his fourth and final throw, he closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to Allah. When he cast his net that time, he brought up a small copper jar, capped with the seal of Solomon. It was no fish, but this jar was certainly worth money, as it was untarnished from its time in the sea and surely contained something exquisite within. Perfume, perhaps? Spices? The fisherman waded back to shore, whereby he sliced off the seal and opened the jar._

_All at once a great cloud of smoke emerged, whirling around and around before forming into the shape of a man. The shape of a jinn._

_The jinn was enraged, for he had been trapped inside the jar for over four centuries. At first he had pledged to bestow great power on whoever freed him, but as the years passed by his desires twisted and changed, and now he only wanted death, death to the first man he saw on escaping his prison. As he towered above the fisherman, he opened his mouth and sang:_

_"One hundred years trapped in this jar_   
_Washed up on shores, near and far_   
_I pledged if someone freed me soon_   
_I’d grant unto him a single boon"_

_"Two hundred years I hoped and prayed_   
_My heart grew weary, my hope did fade_   
_If only a man would break my seal_   
_I’d give him silver, gold, and steel"_

_"Three hundred years all came and passed_   
_I swore that were I loosed at last_   
_I’d grant the man who set me free_   
_His heart’s content of wishes, three"_

_"Four hundred years all passed me by_   
_This jar my ground, my walls, my sky_   
_Gone were the thoughts of bestowing reward_   
_Replaced by notions of poison, of sword"_

_"Oh you who freed me: I’ll take your breath_   
_And offer nought but this: your choice of death"_

_The fisherman, though of humble means, was of a quick mind. He saw no reason why he should die for being the one to free the jinn, and quickly thought of a plan to trick the jinn._

“Oh.” Yusuf paused his tale and yawned, theatrically. “Oh dear, I can’t quite remember how he tricked the jinn.”

“You can’t remember?! But you started the story!” the Sultan would have sounded more enraged if he too hadn’t been yawning.

“I will remember, I will. I fear I am too tired to remember this very moment, however.” Yusuf yawned again, noting how the Sultan mirrored him. “Tomorrow, though, I am certain I will remember how the story ends.”

“Tomorrow.” The Sultan replied sleepily. “Very well. Tell me tomorrow.”

As the bemused guards escorted Yusuf back to his cell, he was once again filled with a smug feeling of satisfaction that he’d lasted as long as he had. And if he lasted a little longer, Nicolò would come and find him. He’d lasted one night, and felt he could last a thousand more in a similar fashion if need be.


	2. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf decides the only way to stay alive is to keep talking. Luckily, he's always been good at talking.

The Sultan didn’t summon Yusuf until the evening the next day, leaving him alone in his cell for hours. Those hours gave him time to think, to develop the plan he had fleetingly thought of last night. Choosing his own manner of death now no longer seemed like the only good scenario- now, if he could just keep the Sultan occupied for a few more nights, he was certain Nicolò, Andromache and Quynh would find some way to rescue him, hopefully avoiding the need to die altogether.

He had managed to send a note out of the palace every other day since his arrival, and today had been the first time he had missed his deadline. The others would realise something had happened to him, and once Nicolò knew he could be in danger Yusuf knew that nothing would stop him from coming to his aide. The high walls and numerous guards would be insignificant obstacles in the path of his love’s journey back to him, and all Yusuf needed to do was to be ready when the time came. And it would come.

The Sultan, it seemed, now that Yusuf was under lock and key and no longer a danger as a spy, was content to entertain him and his wager. He greeted Yusuf cheerfully when he was brought to his chambers, and offered him wine and pastries as though he were an old friend, rather than a prisoner hours away from death.

“Master spy, come, make yourself comfortable.” The Sultan was dressed entirely in blue today, which clashed horrifically with the fuschia couch. It hurt Yusuf’s eyes, and he distracted himself by looking around the room. The only two exits appeared to be the door by which he had entered, and the large floor to ceiling windows that opened onto a balcony. How far up they were, Yusuf couldn't tell, but he stored the information away anyway. You never knew what might be useful.

He obligingly sat down on the floor cushions, and allowed his hands to yet again be tied together as they had the previous night. The guards were waved away before they could tie him to the stone pillar, though, and Yusuf had to hide his smile behind the cup of wine that had been pressed into his hands. Clearly, the Sultan didn’t believe a spy could be much of a physical threat.

“I hope you have remembered the ending to your story.” The Sultan said, “otherwise I’m afraid our little wager ends in my favour.”

“I find my memory is indeed refreshed after the night’s rest. Though my accommodations were less than comfortable.” Yusuf replied.

“Entertain me enough, and you may choose death by cushion if you wish.” The Sultan smiled dangerously, and Yusuf was reminded that behind the bright colours and easily distracted nature was a hard, dangerous man. “Now your story. How did the fisherman trick the jinn?”

“Let me see.” Yusuf took a sip of the wine to wet his throat, and picked up his story.

_The fisherman could see that though powerful, the jinn was vain and proud. He hoped to prey on that pride, and twist it back on the jinn. Summoning all his courage, he called out:_

_“Before you kill me, almighty one, I must know: how can one so large and powerful as yourself fit inside such a small jar? Surely it is no more than a trick of the light.”_

_The jinn bristled at the assumption that his powers were nothing more than illusions._

_“I shall show you.” He announced grandly. “Though for this slight you will forfeit your right to choose your death.”_

_The fisherman readily agreed- he no longer cared how he died, as he now hoped to not die at all. With a roar, the jinn turned once again to smoke, smoke that swirled and spun in a spiral before entering the jar. No sooner had the last wisp of smoke vanished into the jar than the fisherman jumped on it, reaching for the cap and placing it back on, trapping the jinn inside._

_The jinn screamed and raged, furious at being tricked, but the fisherman did not release him. Eventually, desperate for freedom, the jinn struck a bargain: if the fisherman would release him, instead of killing him the jinn would bring him riches and reward. The fisherman readily agreed, as a bottled jinn was of no real use to him._

_Upon his release, the jinn lead the fisherman inland, to a lake he had never come across before. The jinn explained that the fish caught in this lake had prophetic powers: once caught, if a question were asked of the fish whilst it was being cooked, the fish would answer. His bargain complete, the jinn turned back into smoke and was carried away on the wind._

_Though the fisherman initially suspected he had also been tricked, the jinn’s words proved true. The fish caught from the lake did indeed answer any question asked of them as they were cooked, and so the fisherman journeyed into the city to show the marvel to the Sultan._

_The Sultan, ever hungry for power, demanded that the fisherman show him the lake so that he could catch all the fish for himself. However, upon returning to the lake they were surprised to find that there was someone else already there._

_By the banks of the lake was a man, a beautiful man with features so sharp and fine they looked as though they were carved from marble. As the fisherman and the Sultan drew closer they realised he was, in fact, stone, though stone that looked as though it were one moment away from drawing breath and coming to life._

_The man was ensorcelled, it was clear to see: no stone worker, however gifted, could create such a perfect human form. Such a curse, both men knew, could only be broken by a kiss._

“Can the statue not be that of a beautiful woman?” the Sultan interjected.

“No.” Yusuf said simply, as the statue in his mind had taken on the form of Nicolò and could not be changed to anything else.

“Well the Sultan’s not breaking the curse with a kiss.”

“Of course not.”

_It was far below the Sultan’s station to break the curse in such a fashion, and so the fisherman stepped forward and tentatively pressed his lips to the marble. In an instant, he could feel warmth blooming in those same lips, and as he opened his eyes he could see the marble fading away into the colour of skin._

_The man was freed from his curse, and told his own story of how he too had once freed a wrathful jinn from a bottle. The Sultan was overjoyed with the source of fish in the lake, and rewarded both the fisherman and the man-who-was-no-longer-marble handsomely. The Sultan returned to his palace, and left the two men to start a new life with their new found riches together._

Yusuf finished his story with a smile. It was not the original ending to the tale of the ensorcelled prince, but he rather thought his version was better. The Sultan, however, did not seem as pleased with the ending.

“Was that it?” he asked. “I rather thought there would be more to it than that.”

“Did you not enjoy it?” Yusuf said.

“It was passable, I suppose, but there was little action and far too much poetry from the jinn.”

He had been beaten, bound, and dragged through the palace, but that criticism was what hurt Yusuf the most. The poetry had been his own addition, and stories did not always need action to be enjoyable. He refrained from telling the Sultan as such: he had a plan, and he had to follow it if he had any chance of staying alive long enough for the others to come.

“Would you prefer a story with more action? How about the tale of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves?” Yusuf let the name of the story dangle tantalisingly in the air: if anything promised more action than a fisherman tricking a jinn, it was the prospect of forty thieves.

“Another wager?” the Sultan arched an eyebrow.

“You found my story passable: neither entertaining nor dull. Surely such indecision requires another story?”

“Very well.” The Sultan agreed. “Though if _this_ story is merely passable, I shall take that to be as good as a dull one and have your throat slit.”

“A fine incentive.” Yusuf acknowledged. He took a breath to steady himself, then started his story.

_There once lived a poor man by the name of Ali Baba. While his brother was a successful merchant, he shared none of his wealth with Ali Baba, and so he and his family lived in destitution. One day when Ali Baba was out collecting firewood, he overheard a group of forty thieves visiting their hidden treasure._

_Creeping forward as close as he dared, Ali Baba learnt two things: the first was that the treasure was hidden in a cave sealed by a magical boulder, and the second that the boulder could be made to open by saying the words “iftaḥ yā simsim”. He waited until dusk, when the thieves finally left, then he entered the magical cave and stole a single bag of gold._

_His tale could have ended happily here, had it not been for the greed of his brother. Ali Baba’s brother, Cassim, grew suspicious of his new wealth and demanded Ali Baba tell him how he came to it. Reluctantly, Ali Baba told him everything, and Cassim immediately set out to see the cave for himself._

_He entered the cave using the magic words, and was struck dumb with awe at the treasures he saw inside. So taken by greed was he, that when the time came to exit the cave with his bags of gold and jewels, he forgot the words needed to move the boulder aside. Panicked, Cassim tried every possible phrase he could think of that may open the cave, but could not find the right words. Soon, the thieves returned, and finding Cassim in their cave slaughtered him and cut his body into four pieces._

_When Cassim did not return home by the next day, Ali Baba went to the cave and was there confronted with his brother’s body displayed outside, serving as a deterrent to any others who would attempt to rob the thieves._

“Hmm, four pieces. That could send a better message than a slit throat.” The Sultan mused, cutting Yusuf off just when he was getting into the flow of the story.

Yusuf had to suppress the noise of annoyance that bubbled in his throat at the interruption, but after another swig of wine carried on his tale.

_No one could know how Cassim had died, and so Ali Baba needed to find a way to make it seem as though his brother had died a natural death. Fortunately, he had in his employ a loyal servant, who though quiet and generous on the surface had piercing eyes that betrayed a mind that could be as cold and cunning as any warlord._

“What was her name?” The Sultan asked, a hint of interest in his voice for the first time that night.

Yusuf was stunned for a moment, as yet again his mind had wandered and placed Nicolò in his story.

“Ah, Morgiana.” He decided after a moment, thinking it was best to cater to the Sultan’s interests. “A servant known for her beauty as much as her wit.”

The Sultan made an appreciative noise, and waved for Yusuf to continue.

_Morgiana hatched a plan. She brought herbs and medicine from the apothecary, pretending Cassim was ill, and paid the blind tailor of their town to visit the house at night and stitch Cassim’s body back together, which allowed the body to be buried as if he truly had died of illness._

_Unfortunately, the thieves knew that whoever had removed Cassim’s body from outside the cave likely knew about their hidden treasure, and so they set out to search the town and find the man who knew their secret._

There, Yusuf paused of his own accord, coughing pointedly into his hand. When he resumed his story he did so with a forced roughness in his voice, barely making it to the end of a sentence before coughing again.

“Forgive me, your excellency.” He rasped, punctuating every pause in his words with another cough. “The cell I have been kept in is dusty, and I am not used to talking so much. I will not be able to continue tonight.”

The Sultan frowned, but after a tense few seconds relaxed.

“What does another day of living matter. Go. I shall send more water to your cell, in the hopes you will be able to finish the story tomorrow. Otherwise…”

“Four pieces?” Yusuf supplied, then hastily coughed to try and cover up the fact he had spoken in his normal, unbroken voice.

“Make it eight.” The Sultan smiled, a sinister grimace spreading across his face as he rang a bell to summon the guards.

When Yusuf arrived back at his cell, he noticed a tiny rolled up piece of parchment carefully nestled inside a crack in the wall. He waited until the guards’ footsteps away had faded into the night, then unrolled the parchment and read it.

_One day. Maybe two. Be ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm so the original tale of the ensorcelled prince is uh… racist af, hence me just not retelling it at all. Also yes, even though this story has no clear setting, it would be well before Hanna Diyab came up with Ali Baba but consider this: I like the story.
> 
> Me writing this: ahaha Yusuf using 1001 Nights characters as a self-insert  
> Me re-reading it: oh, I was the real self-insert all along


	3. Aladdin, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf finishes his tale of Ali Baba, and can't wait to start his fresh take on Aladdin. The Sultan, however, has other ideas.

It wasn’t much, but the note from Nicolò was enough to keep Yusuf going through the next day. It had been weeks since he had last seen his love, and though Yusuf had kept a steady stream of information leaving the palace during that time, he hadn’t received a single word back from the outside. The news of being reunited soon, written so plainly in Nicolò’s hand, was a constant comfort as he sat through the hours of boredom that came before he was yet again unceremoniously dragged along to see the Sultan.

The Sultan was dressed all in white, which was a marvellous change as it meant that Yusuf could actually look at him. He was lounging on his couch, as always, and was steadily making his way through a plate of small cakes that looked far too delicately decorated to be held in his hands.

“Ah! Finally.” The Sultan beamed when he saw Yusuf. “I was beginning to think you might have escaped.”

“Not just yet.” Yusuf said with a smile that contained too much genuine excitement. Not yet. Soon.

“I hear your voice has recovered. Better pick up your story again. The thieves journey to town to find Ali Baba, yes?” the Sultan said eagerly, cramming another cake into his mouth.

As with the day before, though Yusuf’s hands were still bound he was not tied to anything, and was free to shift and move about to get comfortable as he liked. He used that freedom to dare to lean forward and sneak a cake off the Sultan’s plate: it would have been far too sweet under any other circumstance, but after days of plain vegetables and bread it tasted divine.

“Yes, they all travel to the town and one of them finds the tailor, who mentions he had recently stitched together a body.” Yusuf said around his mouthful of cake.

“Tell it properly.” The Sultan ordered.

Yusuf swallowed and cleared his throat, resisting the urge to sigh. He was already pushing his luck.

_One of the thieves convinced the tailor to show him Ali Baba's house, and to make sure he and the other thieves would find it at night he marked a symbol on the door. Now, Morgiana saw all this, and proceeded to mark the same symbol on every house in the town. When the forty thieves snuck into the town at night, they could not differentiate the houses, and their leader killed the unsuccessful thief in a fit of rage._

_The next day, another thief got the tailor to take him to Ali Baba’s house. This time, he chipped a piece out of the stone step in order to mark it apart from the other houses. Morgiana, sharp as ever, noticed this and chipped pieces out of the steps of every other house in town. When the thieves all returned, they again found themselves unable to find the right house, and again the leader killed the unsuccessful thief._

“Wait.” The Sultan held up his hand in order to pause Yusuf’s story. “If you expect me to sit here while you repeat this 38 more times for each thief, you are very much mistaken.”

Yusuf sighed. “If you would have let me continue, I would have told you that tired of his men’s failings, the leader of the thieves followed the tailor to Ali Baba’s house himself, and made sure to memorise every single detail of it.”

“Ah.”

“May I continue?”

“Very well.”

_The leader of the thieves decided to disguise himself as a merchant, and visited Ali Baba’s house in this form. Generous with his new found wealth, Ali Baba invited him into his home, welcoming and feeding him as though he were family. To add colour to his part as merchant, the leader of the thieves brought with him 38 large jars that needed storing inside, to prevent them from being stolen._

_“Oil.” The thief lord explained, lifting the lid off the first jar to show Ali Baba what was inside. His curiosity satisfied, Ali Baba ordered Morgiana to bring wine and food for his guest. Little did he know that the other 37 jars did not contain oil, but rather the other thieves. They planned to wait for a signal in the dead of night, and jump out to kill Ali Baba and steal back their gold._

_As Ali Baba and the thief lord talked, Morgiana set about preparing food. From her spot in the kitchen, she could hear murmuring coming from the store room, yet when she looked she could only see the jars of oil. She shook her head: she must have imagined the noises. It was only when she heard a distinct cough that she realised what was happening, and with a grim determination decided to end it once and for all._

_As the meat roasted, she heated up batch after batch of oil over the fire. When each batch was scalding hot she calmly entered the storeroom and jar by jar, poured boiling oil over the waiting thieves._

_“These are oil jars, are they not.” She told herself as she worked. “They should be filled with oil, not men.”_

_With the 37 hidden thieves dead, there remained only one: the thief lord himself. As she dutifully served the food to Ali Baba and his deceitful guest, she innocently offered to perform a sword dance for their entertainment._

_Now Morgiana was a beautiful girl, and the thief lord was eager to see her dance. As she swayed and moved to the music he became enraptured, falling almost into a dreamlike state as he gazed at the woman before him. So enamoured was he that he did not notice the blade in Morgiana’s hand flicking out in an arc and into his chest until he was already dying._

_Ali Baba was outraged at his servant's behaviour, but after Morgiana showed him the bodies of the 37 thieves in jars his anger faded as quick as it had risen. He rewarded her by freeing her from her servitude, and led her to the thieves' cave which they could now freely plunder. They lived out the rest of their days using the thieves’ gold to improve not just their lives, but the lives of all those around them._

Yusuf finished his story and looked at the Sultan expectantly.

“That was entertaining, I must say.” The Sultan acknowledged as he licked crumbs from his fingers. “Though one entertaining story and one passable hardly seem like grounds to grant you your choice in death.”

“Then let me try once more. One final time.” Yusuf urged. He only needed to live to tomorrow, needed to hold on one more night before Nicolò would come for him.

“You’re lucky, spy, that I’ve come to tolerate your outspokenness, and find myself in need of evening entertainment as I currently find myself… between wives.”

Yusuf didn’t need to ask what had happened to his last wife: his first few days in the palace had overlapped with the last of hers. Luckily, she was currently well on her way to her sister in the far north of the Sultan’s lands, and would hopefully never see or hear from him again.

“One more story, then I shall decide your fate.” The Sultan said, in a tone that brooked no argument. That suited Yusuf fine.

“Another story with action?” he asked. The Sultan nodded, and Yusuf’s mind quickly alighted on just the tale.

_In the ancient city of Agrabah, there lived a well loved Sultan and his daughter. Though great, the Sultan did not rule alone: he had the advice of his loyal vizier Jafar, a handsome man whose cunning and wits were matched only by his good looks and-_

“I know this one.” The Sultan interrupted. “Though I do not recall Jafar ever being described as handsome in the original tale.”

“Perhaps this is a different story then?”

“If it is, it is too similar to one I already know. If you insist on telling it to me I’m afraid you force yourself into losing our little bet.”

“Very well.” An idea suddenly came to Yusuf. He had a story he could guarantee the Sultan had never heard before.

_In a bygone century, there lived a merchant. This man travelled far and wide across numerous lands, his job almost an afterthought as he sought out new people, new experiences, new stories. But there was one experience he had never sought, stories he never thought he would tell: those concerning war._

_The invaders did not come quickly. They swept across the land in a slow wave, drawing ever nearer bit by bit, and though the merchant had plenty of time to flee, he did not. He could not. He would stay and help protect the city, protect the people who lived within it, and if need be he would die for them._

_The merchant had been in fights before: it was impossible not to, when he spent most of his time as a foreigner on unfriendly shores. This fight was different. This fight went on for days and days and days, and this enemy was more ferocious than any he had ever faced before. The enemy was relentless. There was only so much the merchant could do, only so long he could fight, before he was struck down by the enemy’s blade. As the last breath left his body, he thrust his own sword forward and took the enemy with him._

_But this was not the end of the merchant’s story. Though he had bled out beyond the city walls, with nought but the body of his slain opponent for company, he miraculously drew breath. As he gasped and struggled for air he realised he was whole once more, his skin showing no cuts or marks from where the blade had touched him._

“But how?” the Sultan asked, not able to help himself from leaning forward from his place on the couch. “Magic?”

“Perhaps.” Yusuf replied. “Perhaps it was divine intervention.”

“How can you not know? It’s your story.” The Sultan accused.

“Not all questions have answers.” Yusuf said simply, launching back into his story before the Sultan could reply.

_The merchant sat up from the ground, and came face to face with the man who had killed him. With the man he had killed. Whatever magic that had brought him back from the dead had seen fit to resurrect his enemy as well. Neither man knew what to do, and could do little but stare at each other in wonder as the battle raged on around them._

_In the end fate decided their next moves: the merchant was set upon from behind by another of his enemy, a faceless man who drove his sword down through his neck. The man who had once been dead scrambled to his feet and ran away, leaving the merchant to die for a second time, alone._

_As the merchant died, he dreamt. He dreamt of lands he had never seen, even in all his years of travel. He dreamt of women he had never met, who fought and died as he had. He dreamt of the man he had killed, every line of his body appearing sharper and more vibrant than they had been on the battlefield._

_The merchant died. And he lived again. He woke under stars, to quiet, with the men who had survived the day’s fighting long retired to their camps. He struggled to get his bearings, but by the light of the moon he was able to make his way back to the city. As he-_

The Sultan snored, jolting Yusuf out of his memories. He tried not to be insulted that the Sultan had fallen asleep in the middle of what Yusuf considered to be the most beautiful story of all time, but it was fortunate in a way. It meant he would at the very least live another night, which was all he needed.

With the Sultan sound asleep it was a good while before the guards returned to take Yusuf back to his cell, and as they did, none of them noticed the ornate dagger he smuggled out of the bedroom with him. He tucked it securely up his sleeve and laid down to sleep, the slip of paper from Nicolò held tight in his hand. Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I couldn't write this story without at least a passing reference to Hot Jafar. Had to be done.


	4. The Crusades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Yusuf awaits his rescue, he finishes telling his story to the Sultan.

Yusuf was never in any doubt that Nicolò would come for him, but as day started to turn to night he couldn’t stop the cold chill of dread creeping into his heart.

Yes, it would make more sense to come for him under the cover of darkness, and yes, surely if Nicolò had been apprehended he would have been thrown in a cell next to Yusuf’s, but still. Yusuf couldn’t help the nervous tension working its way through his body, and it was almost a relief when the Sultan summoned him: it would be a distraction, at least.

In a departure from the previous nights, Yusuf’s hands remained unbound, the Sultan having decided that even that small level of restraint was unnecessary for a man whose prime weapon seemed to be his stories.

Despite having fallen asleep in the middle of the story the day before, the Sultan seemed eager for Yusuf to continue.

“Men who can never die.” He explained with relish. “Imagine the sort of power I could wield with such men in my forces.”

“This is just a story.” Yusuf said hurriedly. “No more real than jinn and magic caves.”

“All stories must come from somewhere.” The Sultan said with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Now go. Finish your tale, spy.”

Yusuf adjusted slightly from his spot on the floor, letting the stolen dagger slip a little further down his sleeve. He would continue his story, but he would be ready. Just in case.

_Day after day, the merchant died and died again. He and his bright-eyed enemy fought each other, and each other alone, but as the days wore on and the dreams kept on coming the merchant found his enemy almost reluctant to fight._

_One day, as the merchant knelt submissive on the ground, the enemy’s sword at his throat, the enemy hesitated. It was only when one of the enemy’s brothers shouted something at him in his native tongue did the enemy kill him. As the merchant collapsed to the ground his enemy whispered what he could only interpret as an apology over and over._

_When the merchant returned to life he was far from the battlefield, the shouts and cries of the men who fought there as blurred as the outline of the city they killed for. His enemy was there with him, his eyes as bright as ever, yet tired from the exertion of having dragged the merchant away from the war._

_They had little but a few words of a common language between them, but it did not matter. The confusion, the remorse, the desperation was clear in his enemy’s tone, in his expression. The merchant did not want to comfort his enemy, did not want to care for the man who had invaded his lands and caused so much destruction, but found his heart opening to him just a crack._

_They travelled together for a while, searching for answers. Over time the crack in the merchant’s heart grew and grew, smaller fissures forming and spreading with every act of kindness he witnessed his enemy perform until one day his heart shattered completely._

_The man by his side was no longer his enemy, and had not been for a while. The merchant could not say how many years had passed, but the man he now shared his life with was a far cry from the man who had slain him on the battlefield a lifetime ago._

_There were many wars yet to come, but they fought them side by side, united by their joint love for humanity and each other. Though the world changed around them they remained entwined in each other, the only stability in an ever churning sea._

Yusuf felt vaguely winded when he finished, as he had been so wrapped up in his own words he had almost forgotten to breathe. The Sultan was still awake, which was a good sign, and Yusuf raised an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“I thought this was a story of action, not one of love.” The Sultan said critically.

“Well, it was both. The two were intertwined in such an intrinsic way that one could not exist without the other.” Yusuf’s feelings were once again more than a little hurt.

“Hmm.” The Sultan huffed. “No, I don’t think I liked that one. Falling in love with the enemy? Two men? You didn’t even mention who won the war!”

“The war wasn’t the point of the story!” Yusuf tried.

“It should have been.” The Sultan frowned and heaved himself into a standing position. “I think I’ve heard enough from you. Guards!”

There was no reply from his guards. The Sultan shouted again, and this time received some muffled yells in response.

The door opened with a bang, and the Sultan was so startled he toppled backwards onto his couch. Though he already knew the source of the noise Yusuf turned around to look, and there, standing in the doorway, was his Nicolò.

The barest flicker of a smile- relief- flickered across Nicolò’s face, before a shout from behind caught his attention and he whirled round to face the guard who had run up behind him.

As Nicolò fought, Yusuf freed the dagger he had stolen from up his sleeve and ran to the Sultan, kneeling on his chest and holding the knife to his throat.

“Call them off.” He ordered, as more guards joined appeared at the door, Nicolò only able to fend them off by virtue of the narrow corridor preventing most men from facing him.

The Sultan just gasped in shock, wriggling like a fish under Yusuf’s knee.

“Call them off! Or you die.” Yusuf shouted into his face, and this time the Sultan listened, garbling an order to his men who mutinously backed away.

As quick as ever, Nicolò closed the door and dragged a table in front of it before turning his attention to Yusuf.

“Only you would use your time as a prisoner to tell stories to your captor.” He said fondly.

For a moment Yusuf almost forgot the Sultan was still there, as he felt his heart melt under the love that shone through so clearly in Nicolò’s expression. It was but a moment, however, as soon the Sultan started begging for his life.

“Andromache says to kill him.” Nicolò said, his soft gaze hardening into a frown as he looked at the man under Yusuf’s knee. “He’s causing too much damage to his people.”

Yusuf had suspected that would be Andromache’s stance, and didn’t hesitate as he drew the Sultan’s own dagger across his neck, silencing his pleas. He wiped the dagger clean on the hideous fuchsia couch then jammed it into his belt: he rather suspected they would have to fight their way out.

“As much as I’m thankful you’re here, my heart, I do hope you have some plan of escape.” He remarked as he did. The way he saw it there were only two possible exits: either unbarring the door and fighting their way through who knows how many guards and soldiers, or jumping from the balcony and hoping they returned to life faster than the guards could catch them.

“Do you think I would come for you if I did not have a plan?” Nicolò asked wryly as he removed a torch that had been strapped to his back.

“You might have just wanted to keep me company in captivity.” Yusuf only half joked. He knew that if Nicolò were ever captured with little hope of an escape, he would sacrifice his own freedom and join him in a heartbeat.

“I might.” Nicolò paused in his task of setting the torch alight to smile at Yusuf. “But luckily, we can both leave this cursed place.”

He lit the torch and strode out onto the balcony, waving it in the air before setting it down on the stone ledge. A second later a grappling hook was shot straight at him, and he caught it before it could fall to the ground.

“Andromache and Quynh have been on the ground all this time.” Nicolò explained as he tied off the end of the rope to one of the balcony’s pillars.

“Are you going to carry me down? I don’t think I can call this a proper rescue if you don’t.” Yusuf asked as Nicolò tested the rope. There seemed to be an awful lot of slack in it, though Yusuf supposed that was to allow them to slow down before they reached the ground.

“As much as I would love to, I doubt it can take both our weights.”

“A shame.” Yusuf sighed dramatically.

Nicolò laughed and handed him a curved metal strip that was bound into crude leather handholds on each end, then pulled Yusuf into a kiss. The sensation of Nicolò’s lips against his was like water after a drought, like shade in the desert heat, and Yusuf surrendered himself to it completely.

“Did that make it a proper rescue?” Nicolò asked when they finally parted, his eyes shining.

“It did.” Yusuf replied. “Though I’ll expect another when we’re both standing on the ground again.”

“Of course.” Nicolò laughed and nudged Yusuf to the edge of the balcony. “You go first, the others are waiting for you.”

With one final look at Nicolò, Yusuf slung the metal strip over the rope and held on tight to the ends. The flight down took his breath away, and just as his arms were about to give in from the strain the rope thankfully levelled out, and a second later there was land beneath his feet once again.

He stumbled, and a pair of strong arms caught him. Quynh steadied him, and pulled him out of the way just in time as Nicolò followed him down. Yusuf barely had time to process his reunion with the others, as Andromache shouted a warning from somewhere in the shadows and the next thing he knew the four of them were running, running out of the palace walls and into the city.

There was no breath to spare for talking as they made their escape, and when they finally collapsed in a heap together even Andromache could only mention a brief “welcome back” before sighing and closing her eyes. They lay there a while, all entwined in each other as they waited for their heartbeats to slow and their breath to return.

“I have to know, Yusuf,” Quynh said once they could pull themselves into more or less upright positions, “What on _earth_ were you doing in the Sultan’s chambers?”

“You didn’t half pick the worst place to be rescued from.” Andromache added, though there was no malice in her voice.

“Yusuf was telling the Sultan a story.” Nicolò said with a sideways smile at Yusuf.

“A story? It must have been a good one if the Sultan wanted to hear it. What was it?” Andromache said.

Yusuf laughed. “Well.” He started. “Once upon a time…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I never actually explicitly said why the Sultan is so bad and why they decide to kill him but... he didn't appreciate Joe's story of his and Nicky's meeting. He had it coming.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the original 1001 Nights have sections in poetry for emphasis so I tried to do that too, because I hate myself.
> 
> Come find me on tunglr if you like, @tobebbanburg


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